July 14, 2005
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small figure scrabbles at the dirt, fingers bloodied, nails non-existant.
Suddenly, a ring of people appear, and begin hurling questions and comments.
"Why aren't you dating yet?" "Why can't you find someone?"
"You have the time, but you don't take it?" "You work too
much!". Each one hits the small figure as if it were a stone. The
weakened figure moves in pain, sifting through the soil, but it only pours
through his fingers as he lifts them, caking on the bloodied fingertips.
The face peers up at you, and you can barely hear the pitiful voice over
the babble of questions as he repeats over and over "I can't find
them...I can't find them. Help me, please...."
Suddenly you realize that the pitiful figure is you. And the things that you're searching for are the pieces of your heart, so that you can put them back together and be normal again.
Walking quietly to the theater, you hope that the pain that you feel is some sign that there's something left inside that may heal someday.